


Just A Moment

by ravendiana



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is Patient (Good Omens), Masturbation, Other, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravendiana/pseuds/ravendiana
Summary: Aziraphale knows what they both want, he's trying to get there- but he's not yet.Aziraphale leans back into the shelves that shield him from view on either side and resolves that he will simply need to be very, very quiet.  He had lost the fight with himself a very long time ago about the wickedness of pleasuring himself while imagining his friend.  Surely all those open invitations to do rather more than imagine covered this as well.  Doing it while said friend was sleeping barely 10 yards away is a step further down the path, but he reminds himself that they both want him to finally make it to the end.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 227





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miele_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/gifts).



> So this is for Miel Petit and everyone in That Chat based on the conversation at least a freakin month ago. Just a quick bit of smut, with possible extensions if anyone wants that.
> 
> Thanks to [Waywren Truesong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywren/pseuds/Waywren%20Truesong), [Rini2012](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rini2012/pseuds/Rini2012%20rel=) and Alex of the [The League of Extraordinary British Betas ](https://www.facebook.com/groups/269698664040392/) for beta help. Any remaining mistakes or style choices you don't like are my own

Aziraphale slouches comfortably in his chair, muzzily contemplating the nearly empty bottle of Scotch on the table. It had been full, some few hours ago, and he's not sure he'd quite meant for them to drink the entire thing. At some point during the night he'd removed his waistcoat, and he can't now recall just where it had gone. Crowley is sprawled on the sofa, holding forth on a topic Aziraphale had lost the thread of some time ago. He can only see the sharp point of the demon's chin as he talks, his head lolling off the far arm of the sofa. 

This arrangement means that the primary view from his chair is right between his friend's wide flung legs. Aziraphale tries to focus elsewhere, but his gaze keeps drifting back. It is rather warm, isn't it, that must be why he'd taken off his waistcoat. The exceedingly tight trousers make it clear that Crowley is currently making no effort, as it were… unless, he's going the more discreet route. Even then, with how tight they are, the seam would be pulling right up into any, er, crevices. It would leave them rubbing right against…

Aziraphale shakes himself out of his train of thought forcibly and swallows what remained in his glass. He tips the last of the decanter into it. Crowley's head pops up at the ring of crystal on crystal. He looks at the decanter for a long moment. 

"'S no more?" he asks mournfully. 

Before Aziraphale can answer, Crowley swings upright and grabs the decanter, and holding the stem tightly in one hand, he was pressing it to his lips and trying to shake out the last drops. Then he opens his mouth and his serpentine tongue unspools into the bottle searching its walls and corners for the last of the drink. Aziraphale watches, transfixed. His mind floods with images of other things that tongue could be used for and quickly crosses one leg over the other to hide his reaction. Crowley gives up on the decanter and flops back into his sprawl.

"Sorry, Angel," he says yawning hugely. "Think I might take a little..." he yawns again. 

"Of course, my dear, I'll go find something to read," Aziraphale rushes out, grateful for the excuse to get away before his predicament becomes too obvious. He sobers himself up, hoping to regain his control, but the images running riot in his head only come sharper and more insistent. By now the ache in his staff is so pronounced he's unsure if he can even manage the stairs to his small flat. 

Aziraphale leans back into the shelves that shield him from view on either side and resolves that he will simply need to be very, very quiet. He had lost the fight with himself a very long time ago about the wickedness of pleasuring himself while imagining his friend. Surely all those open invitations to do rather more than imagine covered this as well. Doing it while said friend was sleeping barely 10 yards away is a step further down the path, but he reminds himself that they both want him to finally make it to the end. 

He eases open the buttons of his trousers, quieter than a zip, and takes himself in hand. He bites his lip to hold in the groan and slides his fingers lightly along his length. Aziraphale wants more than just the feeling of a hand caressing his shaft. His other hand undoes his shirt buttons, leaving only those trapped beneath his bow-tie, and he slips his fingers under the fabric and pushes it aside imagining Crowley's long elegant hands touching him instead. 

He thinks of Crowley coming around the corner, pressing him into the shelf, making himself the only thing in Aziraphale's world. He can almost feel the hot breath as nails, sharper than his own, would trace patterns against his skin. He imagines the voice, low and sweet in his ears, murmuring,"Not too fast, right Angel?" He can practically hear Crowley murmur, teasing him with words and fingers. Aziraphale's fingers continue to mimic that tease across his chest, tweaking his hard nipples as his mind fills with "almost" moments collected across millennia. His braces slide off his shoulders to hang about his hips like a flag, an advertisement of how easily his trousers could be done away with.

He thinks of Crowley's relaxed and open sprawl and his hand tightens on his own length spasmodically. There was an invitation in that posture, surely. He shudders as he grips himself, wondering when he will finally allow himself to accept one of the many subtle offers Crowley thinks he doesn't see. In his mind he sees himself cross the room and slide into the space clearly meant for him. He presses the flat of his hand against himself and ruts against it, as if it is the soft, supple, thin leather of Crowley's trousers. His hand is a mess already, slick liquid covering it, easing the now fully exposed head as he grinds into his palm. He imagines the possibilities of what he'd feel beneath him, the wet slide or sudden filling. 

He can't contain the groan that though provokes and he tries to to be still and silent, ears straining to ensure he wasn't heard. His desperate and paranoid mind can't decipher what he hears. Was that sound coming from the pavement outside, or behind him? Is it only his own ragged breathing he hears? What if Crowley were to wake and look for him? What would he do if he came round that corner and saw him, barely clothed? No more chance to let his hesitancy keep him from what he wants.

The thought is electric, sending lightning through his veins. He abandons his stillness, though he strains for quiet. In his mind's eye Crowley is watching him, that self satisfied smirk he gets when he's won sliding across his face. The way he would purr "Finally," and slink forward with hips that were the definition and original insistence for how lust should be inspired. The image of Crowley's tongue in its alcoholic quest fills his mind and he bucks into his hand. He's seen the demon contort his body into nearly every configuration it is capable of, and more than a few it shouldn't be, in Crowley's idiosyncratic definition of "sitting," but he's never seen him kneel, not for anyone or anything. Yet that is what he imagines, Crowley all confidence, smirking up at him from his knees. 

He tries to imagine what that talented tongue would feel like wrapping around him. He twists his hand, imagining the spiral of muscle around him doing the same, pulling him forward into his inviting mouth. He was too ready even at the start of this, and he knows he won't last much longer. Only his free hand, desperately gripping the shelf behind him, is holding him upright. He's lost in the sensations and the dream, his head thrown back as he works himself frantically. His will cracks and he whispers aloud, "Crowley." His vision whites out and he spills across his hand, his trousers, and his trailing shirt tails. He slumps against the shelf, breathing hard.

His blood is still pounding in his ears he can't tell if he can hear snores from behind the bookcase, or gasps.


	2. A Moment, Reversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, was Crowley actually asleep while Aziraphale was ehem, otherwise engaged? Of Course not! Where would the fun in THAT be!
> 
> "Sleep flies from him as he hears the soft rustle of fabric. He hasn't heard feet on the stairs. The step, three from the top, hasn't let out it's characteristic squeak. Aziraphale is just around the corner, giving himself over to his desires. Crowley opens his mouth and breaths in hard, his tongue lolling out to catch whatever scents are lingering in the bookshop air. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ Blue Rose ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BRNZ/profile), my roommate who won't tell me her handle, and as always my dear [Waywren Truesong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywren/pseuds/Waywren%20Truesong) For the Beta. Any remaining issues are entirely my own.

"The really good bit, though," Crowley tells the ceiling, "The really good bit is that they tell themselves they like it. That's how you know a bit of work will have legs, when they decide they like whatever awful thing you've thought up for them." The ceiling is paying about as much attention to his words as the angel across the room. Which is not to say that the angel isn't paying attention to him. His words may as well not be spoken, but Aziraphale's attention is positively riveted on his body, the lust pouring off of him feels like it could choke Crowley at any second. If this were a job, it would be all over but the moaning. 

This isn't a job though. Crowley will not let himself do anything but offer. It's not exactly subtle, the wide spread of his legs may as well have a neon flashing arrow pointing "Angel Goes Here" but he will not initiate anything. He knows exactly how good at his (former) job he is. Which is exactly why he can't be the one to make the next move. Aziraphale is as good at resisting as Crowley is at tempting. They've gotten this far before and it's come to nothing yet. (come he he he) At this point he's probably too drunk to be that upset. Tortoise and the bunny or whatever. The point is, after 6,000 years he's very good at waiting. As it is, he has more than he once thought possible.

The click of the decanter catches his ear. He lifts his head to see Aziraphale empty the last of the scotch into his own glass. Bastard. 

"'S no more?" he asks, which wasn't the brightest thing since he can clearly see that, but he's drunk. It seems worth one last display, maybe that last push will do it. So he grabs the clear decanter and puts on as lascivious a show as he can manage. He closes his eyes and lets his tongue sweep the length of the bottle, imagining where else he'd like to put it to use. He may not be able to get any more scotch but he swallows down the heady lust that rolls over him even more thickly. Then the flow is cut down as that angelic will reasserts itself. He cracks one eye, sees the primly crossed legs, and flops backwards in defeat. That was the best gambit he had, it's time to concede defeat again tonight.

"Sorry, Angel," he says yawning hugely. "Think I might take a little..." he yawns again, deciding to let the alcohol take him off to sleep where hopefully his dreams can rewrite a better ending to the evening.

"Of course, my dear, I'll go find something to read," Aziraphale says, before practically running from the space. Crowley allows himself a small smile at that. He may not have gained the prize tonight, but he's definitely gaining ground. He sees the liquid return to its container and frowns. Rude to go drinking it if he wasn't even going to keep it for long. He has little time for resentment however before the wave of lust intensifies. A drunk mind truly does speak a sober heart, in this case. Or a sober prick anyway. 

He twists on the couch feeling it strong, close, desperately urgent, and aimed directly at him. The shame, guilt, and fear have almost washed completely away leaving a lust so pure it could almost be mistaken for the love he can no longer sense. (Sense, not feel, that little lie he's let go of long since, there is no other word for how he feels.) Embarrassment sparkles across the lust like a spice, sharp and hot but not a detraction. 

Sleep flies from him as he hears the soft rustle of fabric. He hasn't heard feet on the stairs. The step, three from the top, hasn't let out it's characteristic squeak. Aziraphale is just around the corner, giving himself over to his desires. Crowley opens his mouth and breaths in hard, his tongue lolling out to catch whatever scents are lingering in the bookshop air. He knows the smell/taste of this place as intimately as any home he has ever had. The burnt vanilla of old books, the taste of 200 years of steam laden with tea and cocoa, soot from the fire Aziraphale keeps the city from knowing about, the dry grass and sulfur smell he's left behind himself, and over it all the taste of Azirapale's own presence, like fruit no living human has tasted and spices now vanished from the world mixed with a taste of something beyond the world entire. And today all of that is mixed with a hint, the tiniest appetizer of something bitterly entrancing.

Crowley twists on the couch, hands folded into fists, imagining what the angel is doing just beyond his sight. He can just barely hear the soft rustle of fabric and wonders how much more of the angel is exposed. He's clearly desperate, and oh that is a lovely thought, to not have waited to go upstairs. Is he going as fast and efficient as he can, nothing but his trousers open and his hand flying over himself. Crowley swallows, his hips twisting uselessly. The tight trousers provide plenty of friction, but he will not make anything to take advantage of that friction. He can hardly control himself as it is without things like anatomy and _instinct_ getting involved. The tempter, tempted, and the angel doesn't even know he's doing it.

The groan is incredibly loud for something so quiet. The silence that follows it is deafening. He has to see. He won't touch until he's asked, but he wasn't this hard on Christ in the desert! A demon can only be expected to endure so much. He needs to be quiet. Stealthily, careful to make no starling sound, he wraps himself in scales and slides off the sofa. Black against the darkness and with no footsteps to betray him he slides across the floor. The haze of lust is like a dense fog where he could lose himself.

When his head clears the shelves he is frozen by the sight before him. Aziraphale, in a more debauched state of disarray than he would have dared imagine. His shirt is splayed open, no undershirt at all, yet that prim bowtie is still perfect, making the rest somehow more lewd. His trousers are hanging open, discarded suspenders at half mast, framing a gorgeous cock gripped in a perfect hand. The other has a white knuckled grip on the bookshelf as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. When Azirapale's hips begin bucking into his fist Crowley's mouth falls open, which is a terrible mistake. The scent of Aziraphale's musk is overwhelming so close. It flows through him,pulling every muscle tight and causing him to coil tightly around himself. 

He's writhing now in desperation wrapped in the feeling pouring over him. His coils pulse and curl in time to every movement of soft hand over slick flesh. It's only his own insensibility at this point that keeps him from shooting across the floor and twining himself around the angel. He can feel, physically feel, Aziraphale's desire for him. As if he's choking on a phantom cock, he swallows reflexively, and wonders if it translates back. The feeling flows through him and he is pulled along by the ever rising ever tightening tension. It could be the bursting wave that crashes over him from mere feet away, it could be the sight and scent of his angel in ecstasy, it is definitely partially the sound of his own name as a prayer on those sacred lips, whatever it is, it sends him over the edge. His body is seizing along the entire length of him in rolling waves of pleasure with nothing to anchor them. With nothing to expel or grasp onto, he loses all sense of his physical form, lost in insensate sensation.

He returns to himself blinking eyes that have lids again. He's lying, naked, sprawled on the bookshop floor, gazing at fluffy golden curls on the back of Aziraphale's head. 


End file.
